Page 1 of Passed Ball

Prologue

Xavier

The text is still there, glaring up at me from the screen--a stark reminder of all the changes coming. Reading it a dozen times in the last two days hasn't made it lose its impact. It still hits like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from me.

There's so much missing from the brief exchange that it leaves me grappling with the unknown just like it did the day I got it, two weeks ago.

Now, I'm planted at a wobbly table in a too-loud coffee shop, waiting for the only person who can give me answers.

And right now? All I have are questions, with no idea how to face the biggest one of all: How the hell amIsupposed to raise a baby?

Two months isn't enough time to prepare for fatherhood--not with the baseball season looming and no support from family.

I skim the text from Kristy, my ex-girlfriend, one more time, looking for something that isn't there.

Kristy:

I'm pregnant.

Xavier:

Congratulations?

Kristy:

It's yours. I'm due in two months.

That's it. That's the whole damn exchange. It may seem callous, but Kristy and I haven't spoken in months, and she made no secret of the fact that she was moving up and on.

That was the last I'd heard from her.

When her text came through, my teammates and I were helping at a massive volunteer fair that Indie, our third baseman's wife, organized to bolster the support of our local nonprofits. It was unexpected, and there were so many questions, but it wasn't exactly a conversation I was eager to have surrounded by strangers.

So, I didn't push for more information despite the shocking due date--how the fuck was I just finding out?

Instead, I finished the event, and when I was home, I called Kristy to make plans to meet and figure all of this out--face to face.

Now, I'm sitting here, with the matcha I know she drinks in front of me, while I wait for her in a random coffee shop. It's dark and dusty, unlike Buns & Roses, the coffee shop my teammate's wife, Lilah, owns, but Kristy picked a neutral location to send a clear message--we're doing this on her terms.

Whatever. All I care about is figuring out what the hell is next.

The door swings open and Kristy struts in. She's conventionally pretty, with blonde hair that falls to her waist and a slim figure that I know she spends hours maintaining with a trainer at a gym. One that, up until a few months ago, was coming out ofmypaycheck.

Her makeup is done perfectly and hair gleams like she spent hours on it. When we were together, we couldn't leave the house for anything if she wasn't photo ready--her words, not mine. The woman lived in fear of non-existent paparazzi following me around Denver and snapping an unflattering shot of her. It didn't matter that I told her I had only had my photo taken in public by a photographer a handful of times, and only ever when I was with teammates.

"Everyone with a phone is paparazzi, and I refuse to be immortalized looking like a hag," she had said, her nose wrinkling as if the mere thought was offensive.

The only thing that's changed is the rounded bump that's barely noticeable under her oversized sweater. I know better than to comment on a woman's body, even though I have a rogue thought that her bump is smaller than I expected, and that realization causes an unpleasant tightness in my chest.

What if she's lying to me and this baby isn't mine? Or worse, what if something's wrong with the baby? This might be unexpected, but part of me was immediately thrilled at the prospect of becoming a parent. The logistics, not so much, but the actual baby--yeah, I could get on board with that.

Or maybe I'm just a guy who's fucking clueless about what to expect when his ex is unexpectedly . . . expecting.

God, this is going to be a disaster.

For peace of mind alone, I need a paternity test and a clean bill of health from a doctor as soon as possible, because I really am clueless when it comes to pregnancy. I'm an only child with no living family, so this is all uncharted waters.

Standing, I meet her at the edge of the table, awkward as fuck.

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